#sure he's doomed by the narrative of mortal coils but not by the entity's reality-defying narrative and it has bigger plans for him 👁️

[anarkissm]

A BOY RAISED IN HELL.

since he was 6 years old, frank morrison has experienced vivid nightmares. frank would guess that it started on the third night that he was separated from his parents. as a little boy, the visions terrified him; he would wake up screaming, thrashing. startling his foster families in the late hours of the night, every night. frank dreamed about one thing: a knife. attached to a hand, attached to a man, attached to a bloody, grinning mask. the setting was never the same, but it was always a place that frank recognized. remembered. the public park in calgary. a school campus. the bus stops and train stations that moved him from boroughs to suburban echo-chambers to middle-of-bum-fucking-knowhere towns. in every setting, there is blood. on the walls. over the furniture. on people, mouths gaping in terror, tear-stained faces twisting into horrible knots of suffering. in the dreams, he can hear people crying, screaming, begging for help, begging for mercy. the masked killer ignored their blubbering, and drove his knife into their backs, chests, stomachs. he cut deeply, made a point to make it hurt, as a dark, lurking thing watched the man from above him. whispering. encouraging. comforting. social workers would tell annoyed foster families that he was just having a difficult time adjusting. but frank never stopped dreaming about the man. never adjusted. by the time frank was 13 years old, the nightmares stopped scaring him. ultimately, they were not comparable to the hell of his waking hours. frank was treated as an inconvenience, at best. property, at worst. moved around alberta like baggage. four months shy of his 14th birthday, a foster parent attempted to beat him with a belt, like every other foster kid under his roof. frank unloaded several years of rage into beating him so badly that his jaw was broken into three pieces. consequently, frank spent 2 years in calgary's juvenile detention center. consequently, the dreams started to change. showing him places he did not recognize; a snowy mountaintop, an abandoned ski resort. frank stopped watching the killer, and started being him. feeling the weight of the mask over his face, the shape of the knife's hilt inside his fist. and when it was over, and he was wide awake, sitting in his cell, frank looked at his hands. the same hands in his dreams, big and calloused and inked. but it was not a dream, not a nightmare. it was a premonition. the killer was frank. it was always frank. by the time frank was released from juvie and moved to live with clive andrews in ormond's trailer park, the dreams, and the entity, had become the only consistent, familiar thing in frank's life. it enabled his anger, it fed his resentment. it told him secrets, and promised him that the world would burn; suffer; finally, finally end. frank has a vague idea of what the entity is, and what it intends to do with the souls it lures into the fog. it eats feeling. it eats life. all life. and frank decided that he was not going to get in its way. he was going to help. hopefully, speed things up. it was a rotten, ugly world, anyway. a world that rejected him before he was even born. he was already dead. fuck 'em.